


please me, show me how it's done

by sosobriquet



Series: I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Edging, Hair-pulling, Hair-pulling As A Coping Mechanism, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Overstimulation, Rimming, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sosobriquet/pseuds/sosobriquet
Summary: Crowley takes a deep, fortifying breath. “You said I should ask for things,” he starts again, almost casual. His attempt at calm quickly crumbles. “Anything,” he breathes, licking his lips, “that I wanted?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557235
Comments: 29
Kudos: 324
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang





	please me, show me how it's done

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicating this fic to some of the new friends I've made through the Good Omens Big Bang!
> 
> [atmilliways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways), [Brynncognito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/pseuds/Brynncognito), [D20Owlbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeforeCrimson/pseuds/D20Owlbear), [FlygonRider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlygonRider), [Kearatheshadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kearatheshadow/pseuds/Kearatheshadow),  
[Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur), [ragtags](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragtags/pseuds/ragtags), [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes), [samvelg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samvelg/pseuds/samvelg), [seashadows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows), [vgersix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vgersix/pseuds/vgersix), [ZiZZy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiZzy/pseuds/ZiZzy)
> 
> Apologies if I missed anyone! I am still tracking down a couple of ao3 handles, lol.
> 
> And also thanks to my gf [Eris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/Eris) for putting up with me harassing her to beta (as well as everyone else that helped)!
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!!!

"Angel," Crowley says quietly, sitting nearly upright at Aziraphale’s side. His shoulder presses into Aziraphale’s, seeking comfort more than a sprawl, while he studies the depths of his wineglass rather than meeting Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale takes a careful sip from his own glass, giving Crowley a long, quiet moment to try and pull the words out of his wineglass. That's usually enough to induce Crowley to continue - always in a hurry, is Aziraphale's demon - but he doesn't make a sound; only swirls the wine in his glass.

"Yes, darling?" Aziraphale prompts when both the liquid courage and his gently expectant silence yield no results.

Crowley makes a sharp, incoherent noise, and the slight flush on his cheeks spreads, darkening almost to rival the copper flame of his hair. Aziraphale does so enjoy this look on him.

“You said before I could -” here, Crowley swallows. Aziraphale waits, watching without looking at him directly - he doesn’t want to fluster Crowley with his full attention. 

Crowley takes a deep, fortifying breath. “You said I should ask for things,” he starts again, almost casual. His attempt at calm quickly crumbles. “Anything,” he breathes, licking his lips, “that I wanted?”

“And I meant it,” Aziraphale says firmly, keeping the curve of his mouth soft, and he turns to look at Crowley as if he’s something unbelievably precious. Just for a moment he allows all his considerable adoration to show on his face, until he’s sure Crowley has seen; he has to look away before Crowley starts climbing into his lap and covering him with kisses in an attempt to avoid the conversation. Because now that Crowley has begun, Aziraphale would prefer that they finish. 

Crowley’s small smile is light, and the worry lines between his eyebrows and around his mouth soften. "I know you did," he says softly, reaching out to take Aziraphale's hand. 

"Then will you tell me?" Aziraphale asks gently, less to protect Crowley’s delicate feelings and more because he wants Crowley to know that he’s worthy of being treated with care. "You don't have to, of course," he adds, "it's just - I don't ever want you to feel like you can't confide in me."

Crowley feels his smile growing. "It’s not that," he gives Aziraphale's hand a gentle squeeze - to reassure himself or his angel, he's not sure. "S'just ... hard to ask, sometimes." He squeezes again, "You know?" 

Aziraphale squeezes back, with an impossibly fond smile. "I do know, darling."

Struck by sudden inspiration, Crowley raises their joined hands to press a kiss to Aziraphale's knuckles. "I’ve an idea, angel," he moves to stand, but Aziraphale is still holding tight to him, looking at him as if waiting for direction. 

"Will you wait here for me?" Crowley kisses his hand again, strokes his hand over the softness of a perfectly cherubic cheek, "Just a moment?" 

"If I must," Aziraphale sighs, with a put upon look that Crowley knows he reserves for when he truly doesn't mind. Aziraphale turns to press a soothing kiss to his palm - and Crowley takes it for the reassuring gesture it is. 

He goes to Aziraphale's desk, trying to ignore the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze on his back. He's never liked the sensation of being watched, never got used to it despite several millennia of living with it. But knowing it's Aziraphale, and that he's only looking, not Watching, makes his skin crawl in a very different way.

Crowley shuffles around, standing at the edge of the well-beyond-antique desk, looking for a piece of paper that doesn't look too old or too priceless to be used for a scribbled note - no matter how important the content. He finds an ancient fountain pen, still in perfect working order, and begins the search for an appropriate piece of paper. Trust Aziraphale to have one of the first fountain pens ever made, that still looked nearly-new.

At last he unearths a surprisingly modern-looking piece of paper from the mess - if Aziraphale owned a printer, Crowley would have thought that was exactly what it was for. 

When he starts to put pen to paper, however, he remembers the last note he'd written and handed over to Aziraphale. Suddenly, his hands are trembling and his knees feel like they might not hold him up much longer. Feeling a little like an interloper, he pulls out the rolling chair he'd gotten Aziraphale as a joke (only for the angel to love it, and not be offended by it's terrible modernity in the least). He slumps into it with what he hopes is enough practiced nonchalance to hide his unsteadiness.

For a long moment he thinks, and resists putting the pen in his mouth to chew anxiously on the end. _ It won't be like the last time at all _, he tells himself, tapping the pen against his lower lip and coming dangerously close to biting it out of habit. This is exactly why he buys cheap, modern pens - he can maul them as much as he likes and feel no guilt or remorse whatsoever. 

_ I'll make sure to be perfectly clear, this time around, _ he assures himself again. He considers at least a dozen different ways to say, or rather write, what it is he wants. He doesn't want to scandalize his angel with something too explicit, but if he's too vague, Aziraphale is likely to miss the point completely. Then he'd be right back where he started - too tongue-tied to ask for something he wants.

He settles on something at last, scrawling it too roughly on the cheap paper, so the ink bleeds too much for it to look neat. Crowley scowls at it, and the ink stops running and dries instantly - at least it's still legible.

Aziraphale's still waiting a fond and eager look on his face when he swivels the ridiculous chair to face him. Crowley stands, the slip of paper folded carefully into fourths in his hand. He knows Aziraphale might think of the last time Crowley had handed him a slip of paper - how Crowley had quite unwittingly forced Aziraphale to acknowledge that the angel’s worst fear was a life without Crowley in it - but he's still not quite prepared for the stricken look on his angel's face. 

"It's nothing like that, angel," he says softly, crossing the room to touch Aziraphale's cheek again, soft and gentling. "No need for insurance when I have an angel at my side," he says with a crooked, tender smile.

Aziraphale doesn't quite light up, but his face softens, and he smiles a small but genuine smile. Like it was only the unpleasant memory that upset him, and not a real and present fear.

Crowley lifts the note, pressing a kiss to the too-white paper and searing his snake sigil onto it. It won't mar the words tucked carefully inside, he’s sure. There's nothing quite so dangerous as a request for holy water held inside those folds, and so he's laid claim to this scrap of paper, and the desire hidden inside it.

He means for it to soothe Aziraphale. _ Look, see, no secrets here. No fear of being discovered. Just some words I thought I couldn't speak aloud without tripping over them and making a mess of things. _

_ Soothed _ is not the word Crowley - or anyone - would use to describe the look on Aziraphale's face as he takes the note from Crowley's hand when it's offered up to him. _ Covetous, _ maybe. _ Ardent, _certainly.

With his secret wish now in Aziraphale's hands, Crowley curls himself onto the sofa - feet tucked into the arm, back curved against Aziraphale's side, cheek pressed to the soft cushion. Ready to turn and bury his face in them and willfully suffocate himself at the least indication that he's asked for too much.

Aziraphale can feel the tension in Crowley's spine, the absence of his breathing. Aziraphale's heart aches for him, and he reaches across the back of the sofa to card his fingers through Crowley's hair. It's awkward, from this angle, but he hopes Crowley finds it reassuring. 

Despite his obvious nerves, Crowley leans into the touch and uncoils, just enough that Aziraphale feels him relax slightly. Trying to unfold the scrap of paper one-handed is clumsy and far too noisy, he can tell when Crowley tenses against him once more. Still, Aziraphale carries on with the unfolding single-handedly, so that he can continue to gently stroke Crowley’s softly curling hair with the other.

“Shh,” Aziraphale soothes, fingers going still and carefully grasping his demon’s hair. Crowley seems to realize his tension then, taking a quick, shallow breath as if to dispel it. Aziraphale flexes his fingers, curling them into a fist until Crowley inhales sharply at the sharp tug on his scalp. 

The sudden rush of unneeded oxygen reminds Crowley he’d been holding his breath, too.

Aziraphale gradually eases his grip on Crowley’s hair, and Crowley exhales on a slow sigh. Already he feels a little less tense, but he’s still a long way from _ relaxed. _Then Aziraphale’s hand tightens in his hair, and again Crowley finds himself inhaling with the movement. The hand in his hair loosens again, and Crowley breathes out in a matching rhythm.

The hand curls, Crowley breathes in. It lets him go, he breathes out.

_ Tension, breathe in. Release, breathe out. _

Something like tranquility slithers down his spine - a creeping, insidious, _ blessed _relief. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt such peace - one of the many things he lost in the Fall. 

But there’s no further to fall now, is there? Not with Aziraphale to catch him.

The hand in his hair gentles, no longer pulling the air into Crowley’s lungs and smoothing it back out again. He’s breathing steady on his own again, he notices at last, and his spine doesn’t ache with the strain of his worries.

“Alright, darling?” Aziraphale asks patiently, his thumb dipping down to stroke along the plane of a cheekbone.

“Yes,” Crowley says, sounding more like the creak of a rusty hinge than himself. He swallows down the dregs of his nervousness. “M’fine, really.” This time, he sounds like himself.

“I can wait to read this,” Aziraphale offers, turning to press a kiss to the back of Crowley’s head, where the soft hair at the nape of his neck has grown long enough to curl temptingly. “There’s no need to rush.”

"It's alright. I want you to read it," Crowley insists, more clearly than he thought he'd be able to. "Whenever you like," he adds.

Aziraphale sighs through his nose in response, and Crowley doesn't need a single one of his extra, Hell-given senses to know Aziraphale's doubt.

He shifts, pressing his back more firmly into Aziraphale's side. Crowley wishes, not for the first time, that he could sink into that softness and stay there forever. "Open it, angel," he says quietly.

Aziraphale does as requested, while Crowley listens intently to sounds of paper unfolding and wills himself not to tense up again.

He knows Aziraphale's read it when he hears the angel take a steadying breath. Tension creeps up his spine again, and he can't help but shiver at the small sound Aziraphale makes. 

"Oh, Crowley," he says, sounding far too breathless. Crowley, doesn't - can't - speak. He turns his body instead, just enough to be able to look at Aziraphale over his shoulder - to see his bright eyes all but swallowed up by the darkness of his pupils, the flush painting the curve of his cheeks, the too-quick rise and fall of his chest.

"Of course you - I -," Aziraphale swallows. "Yes, I would like to do that for you. With you."

Crowley turns a little more towards Aziraphale, like a plant chasing the sun, and drops one of his feet back to the floor. The rug is soft but firm beneath his bare sole, grounding him. "You would?"

"Of course, darling." Aziraphale sets the note carefully on the edge of the sofa, bracing his arm along the back to turn toward Crowley. He finds himself grateful once again that Crowley has made a habit of taking his tinted glasses off in private. Crowley's eyes are wide and dark, pupils almost round with his desire. 

Aziraphale wants to make Crowley forget, at least for a moment, to keep the gold of his irises contained in a more human shape. To make Crowley feel as wild and reckless with wanting as he feels right now.

He leans close, presses a kiss to the mark of the snake at the edge of Crowley's hair, leans closer still to breathe into his ear, "Actually, I'd _ love _ to."

Crowley shivers against him, and Aziraphale can't help but lean closer still, and leave a trail of kisses down his neck. He hadn't expected to be so aroused by a simple request, but it is titillating to know that Crowley _ wants _something like that from him. So much so he hadn't even been able to speak to ask for it.

Crowley's pulse is tripping beneath his tongue, and he sinks his teeth into it - a careful love bite meant to draw a desperate noise from Crowley more than leave a mark.

The desired outcome achieved - a sharp moan from Crowley, and a faint pinkening on his throat unlikely to leave a bruise just yet - Aziraphale pulls back. "We could-" he hesitates, struggling not unlike Crowley had, to speak the words. He takes a steadying breath, and swallows, "Tonight? If you'd like?"

For a moment, Crowley seems to choke on nothing at all (as he sometimes does). Aziraphale waits him out.

"Nah, angel," he says at last, smiling and leaning in to steal a quick kiss, "it should be a surprise, don't you think?"

This time it's Aziraphale's breath catching on a moan as he takes Crowley's face in both his hands and pulls him in for a kiss. "No?" he asks petulantly. 

"Don't sound so disappointed," Crowley chides him, sounding unbearably fond. "I didn't say we couldn't do _ anything _tonight. Just not that."

"Well, dearest," Aziraphale says, dangerously low, pressing Crowley into the back of the sofa and twisting to get his knees up on the cushions on either side of Crowley's hips. He's careful to hold them apart, so that their only points of contact are his lower legs bracketing Crowley's thighs, his knees caging Crowley's hips, and his hands sunk deep in ginger-fire hair.

"If you want to save that for a surprise," Aziraphale pauses to tug at Crowley’s hair until he's tipped his head as far back as he's able. 

Crowley lets out a low grunt in response. Aziraphale waits, tugs at his sensitive hair as a reminder. "I do," Crowley affirms.

Aziraphale rewards him with another quick kiss. "Well then, my darling, what would you like to do instead?" Now, he allows himself to sink into Crowley's lap, to let their stiffening cocks slide together, still trapped in the confines of their trousers.

"_Anything, _" Crowley breathes, absolutely wanton as he arches up into Aziraphale, eyes half-closed in ecstasy.

Aziraphale fixes his car-crash of a demon with a stern look, and rolls their hips together again - more a tease than a relief. 

He’s waiting for a better answer, and Crowley knows it. He’s not sure he can manage one, but he tries to mimic the slow undulation of Aziraphale’s hips against his.”Anything you’d like to do to me, angel,” his hips stutter in time with his breath instead, sad excuse for a demon that he is, “that’s what I want to do.”

The look Aziraphale gives him - bright cloudstuff eyes gone the yawning dark of a black hole - is near enough to melt him into the sofa, boneless and liquid and seeping into the cushions. 

"Anything, my love?" he asks, a sharp edge of warning in that downsoft voice. Aziraphale never takes without asking, never asks without checking it's alright.

Crowley squirms to be treated with such care, a groan crawling up from deep in his chest to become a soft _ yes _ as it escapes from his mouth.

Without another word, Aziraphale slides gracelessly from Crowley’s lap to the floor, knees sinking into the plush rug. His hands grip Crowley’s hips like a lifeline as Aziraphale tugs him to the edge of the sofa and beyond, until only the small of his narrow back balances on the verge, keeping him from spilling over.

“_Fuck! _Angel-” Crowley curses vehemently, arms flailing, hands reaching, grasping at the back of the sofa to hold himself up. He arches into the sweep of Aziraphale’s hands across his hips, pressing his head and neck into the cushions at an uncomfortable angle, the newly familiar sensation of blunt fingers working his fly open - first the button, then the straining zip.

Aziraphale peels the skin-tight jeans partway down Crowley’s twitching thighs, stopping suddenly once his cock is exposed. 

The length of it is lovely to Aziraphale, lying against his thigh with nothing more than a glimpse of the head peeking from beneath the cover of foreskin. Crowley squirms, as Aziraphale's gaze travels from the pink flash of his cockhead, down the slowly stiffening length, to the mass of red curls Aziraphale so enjoys burying his nose in.

“Nothing underneath?” Aziraphale asks, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth (oh, but Crowley_ would _), an impish gleam in his bright-dark eyes.

It’s enough to make Crowley moan softly, dick twitching under the angel’s ravenous scrutiny. “You _ knew _that already,” he protests.

“Oh, did I?” says Aziraphale, the perfect picture of innocence, but for the hand wrapping around the velvet skin at the base of Crowley’s cock.

The noise coming from Crowley starts out annoyed, and ends in another low moan as Aziraphale strokes his thumb up the underside of Crowley's cock, drawing the foreskin back over the head. Crowley's hips twitch when the soft slide of Aziraphale's thumb pauses just below the head, pressing into the frenulum.

Holding Crowley's slowly-stiffening cock erect so he can more easily slip it into his mouth.

His hand slides back down the shaft as the wet heat of his mouth envelopes the freshly exposed head.

Crowley writhes. "_ Again, _Aziraphale?" he gasps, reaching to thread his fingers into pale featherfluff curls.

Aziraphale hums something that sounds like an affirmation, and slips his tongue beneath the ridge of uncut skin. Crowley jolts and makes a sound composed entirely of consonants. His hands curl into fists of their own accord, tugging sharply at Aziraphale's hair.

Crowley opens his mouth to apologize, but Aziraphale's mouth drops open into a low moan. "Should I?" Crowley asks, swallows, "Do that again?"

Aziraphale's mouth is already back on Crowley's cock, but he nods his head slightly. Crowley gives an experimental tug. Aziraphale moans again, mouth sliding down the length of Crowley's cock until there's nothing more left to take. His tongue flicks against the folds of foreskin, but he hasn't the room to tuck himself inside again, not with his tongue held down by the stretch of Crowley in his mouth.

He bobs his head over Crowley a few times. Pulling up just far enough to hollow his cheeks and provide vicious, mind-melting suction until his jaw aches. Then taking him in again, until his nose is buried in Crowley's musky curls, and he's swallowing around the length in his throat.

Through it all, Crowley twitches and groans and pulls gently at Aziraphale's hair, all attempts at speaking completely incomprehensible - serving only as wordless encouragement. Aziraphale can feel him growing harder, longer, with every swallow, with every sweet slide and suck of his mouth.

He pulls off once Crowley's gone fully hard. He has other plans, no matter how tempting it may be to continue savouring the velvet slide of soft, sensitive skin over a frame as rigid and unbending as steel. _ Oh yes _, he wants that inside of him later, and that's incentive enough to keep himself to just a small taste of Crowley's cock rather than making a full meal of it.

Thinking Aziraphale finished, Crowley starts to wiggle up out of his awkward sprawl - hips near hanging off the seat, shoulders curled into the crease where the cushions of the seat and back meet. But Aziraphale stops him with a grip on both knees. His touch is electric and makes Crowley tremble, even through the thick fabric of his only partially removed jeans. 

"Stay there, please," Aziraphale says, and despite the words, it's not a request. There's steel in his expression, and in his tone, too. Crowley stops moving abruptly - stops breathing, too, for a moment.

Aziraphale smiles, fond and forbearing, at this reaction, "I didn't mean you couldn't move at all, darling." He lets himself drink in the sight of Crowley - his flushed face, his shirt bunched up around his chest from Aziraphale dragging him half off the sofa, the perfect curve of his deliciously pink cock, and the tempting dribble of precome leaking from the tip.

He has to remind himself that he's saving _ that _ for later, especially when Crowley tilts his hips toward Aziraphale in a clear offering.

"Not now, my love," he says softly, stroking both hands down Crowley's calves, vanishing his jeans as he goes. His palms slide over bare skin the rest of the way to Crowley's ankles - he wraps a hand around each one, and lifts them slightly. "Can you get your heels up on the seat, dearest?" he asks, turning his head slightly to kiss the bend of one knee.

"Hgk," Crowley answers very eloquently, eyes gone fully golden but for the dark void where his pupils are nearly round with desire. He tries again, with a little more success, managing a breathy "Yes" before Aziraphale lifts his feet to the edge of the sofa cushions.

Crowley must have an idea what's coming, because he makes a low, broken off noise, and shifts just enough to better present his arse for Aziraphale's viewing (and doing) pleasure.

Aziraphale runs his hands back up the length of Crowley's calves, rust red hair tickling his palms. When his hands reach Crowley's knees, he presses them wider, shuffling closer to fit his shoulders between them. He runs his hands up Crowley’s inner thighs, with just enough gentle pressure to urge him to spread his thighs further, and further still

A soft noise of protest from Crowley, muscles stretched as taut as he can bear, and Aziraphale lets up. No more pressure, no more urging, but he leaves his hands where they are - close enough to where Crowley wants him to tease, but too far away for fulfillment. 

Seeing the pale downfeather fluff of Aziraphale’s hair descending never fails to elicit a certain reaction - the anticipatory twitch of Crowley’s cock - whether or not Crowley has any idea what exactly Aziraphale plans to do down there. 

He is not expecting the slide of Aziraphale’s pillowy cheek down one side of his cock, nor the wet heat of one surprisingly devilish mouth on the incredibly sensitive, velvet-smooth skin of his sack. Crowley had rather expected Aziraphale’s tongue inside him by now, remembering the _ ravenous _ look on his face as he’d slid to the floor, but he’s not about to complain.

Certainly not when Aziraphale has taken one of his balls into that mouth - hot as hellfire, as wet and sizzling as holy water. Instead, he sings Aziraphale’s praises in words made entirely of consonants, or vowels - never both, unless he’s gasping _ Aziraphale _ or _ angel _.

Crowley buries a hand in Aziraphale’s hair, unable to help himself, and moans wantonly as Aziraphale uses his own hand to urge Crowley’s into a fist in his hair rather than batting it away. Then, he sucks, _ hard _, and Crowley’s breath is snatched out of him in a sharp whine.

Aziraphale moves to lavish the other testicle with the same attention, tilting his head, so that Crowley can see how it fills his mouth, stretching the skin of his cheek deliciously. Crowley jerks at the sight, yanking at Aziraphale’s soft curls and making a noise of apology at nearly the same time. Aziraphale only hums, acknowledging it, and sucks even harder than he had before - until his cheeks hollow and ache at the suction, and Crowley trembles, a live wire between pleasure and pain. 

This time, when Aziraphale pulls off, he puts his teeth to the tender skin, and nips carefully. Not so carefully that Crowley doesn’t make a bright sound of pain, but he moves the hand buried in starstuff hair to cup Aziraphale’s jaw.

Aziraphale leans into the touch, rubbing his cheek against Crowley’s palm with an eagerness that belies his cool exterior. Crowley groans as much at this small sign that Aziraphale is unravelling as he does the way those blessedly strong hands knead their way down across his thighs to grip his arse-cheeks, spreading him wider still.

The first wet, warm swipe of Aziraphale’s tongue against him is hardly a surprise, but Crowley still gasps and bucks as if this were the first time. Aziraphale holds him firm, fingertips pressing just hard enough into the muscle of Crowley’s arse that he hopes they’ll leave bruises there, but he can’t be sure. 

Aziraphale’s thumbs sweep up over the soft skin where Crowley’s impossible legs meet his delectable arse, the tips of them nearly brushing his balls before sweeping down again, until they stop at the rim of Crowley’s hole. Aziraphale presses down, ever so slightly, and Crowley holds his breath, more than half-expecting Aziraphale to dip one or both inside with nothing more than the small amount of spit left behind by that first lick. 

Crowley does like for it to burn a little, sometimes.

Instead, Aziraphale adds a little _ outwards _pressure to the downward pressure of his thumbs, pulling Crowley’s hole just a little more open, just carelessly enough that Crowley won’t complain of being treated with kid gloves.

And then he laps at Crowley again, tearing a heaving gasp out of his demon as the muscles of his asshole relax abruptly, opening at the very thought of Aziraphale’s thumbs holding him open for a thoroughly un-angelic tonguing. Which is exactly what Aziraphale does, now that Crowley’s gone pliant enough that he can thrust his tongue inside just as easily as a finger.

Aziraphale works himself inside with long, slow laps of his tongue. He curls the tip to brush against Crowley's prostate, but it barely reaches that rough nub of _ indescribable _ pleasure. So he presses closer and bumps his nose against the softness of Crowley's sack, making him grunt and _ writhe _ on Aziraphale's tongue. 

He buries his face between Crowley's arse cheeks, so deep he couldn't breathe even if he truly had to. And still he wills his tongue just a little longer, all for Crowley's pleasure. All so he can lave the flat of his tongue over that slight inconsistency marking the spot that will make him arch and gasp and plead for more.

Crowley doesn't disappoint, he could never, but he begs and pants and twists under Aziraphale's indulgence like a demon possessed. It seems like no time at all, and yet an eternity, before Crowley’s is so overwrought that each stroke of Aziraphale’s tongue over his prostate draws another thick pulse of precome from his inflamed cock head.

“_Aziraphale _,” he pleads, coherent only with great effort. He's so precipitously close, but Aziraphale doesn't need to hear his shaking voice to know it. He can feel it on his tongue, how swollen that certain place has become, how Crowley clenches and opens around him, desperate for more. Can see it in the dark flush of his cock, the trembling of his thighs. Can hear it in the hitch of his breath when he calls out to Aziraphale again, hardly a sound at all.

He thinks of keeping like Crowley like this, just a breath from tumbling over the edge into the yawning abyss of release. For hours or days… time is irrelevant when you need nothing but what you want to need, after all. 

But his patience is fraying, stretching thinner than even this corporation feels sometimes, and Aziraphale wants nothing so much as Crowley sinking inside him, burning like the Hellfire that had never truly touched him, never singed his wings.

At last, Aziraphale takes a sort of pity on Crowley, and wraps a hand right around the base of his cock as he withdraws his tongue with one last curl against Crowley's overused prostate. Crowley jerks with it, and at the vice grip on his leaking, aching cock. 

"Not yet, my dear," Aziraphale soothes, voice as gentle as a summer shower despite his relentless hold on Crowley's prick. For a long moment, Crowley doesn't move, every muscle drawn up tight as if caught in a bolt of lightning.

"Are you ready, my love?" Aziraphale does not say for what. Crowley twitches loose from his frozen pose, only to nod frantically. 

Aziraphale gives him an appraising, vaguely disappointed look. Crowley doesn't know what exactly he's agreeing to, and Aziraphale can't be sure if he's entirely aware of that.

Crowley scowls down at him, looking almost himself despite the darling pink of his face, and the overwhelming black and gold of his eyes. "Yes, I'm ready, angel," he says with a little difficulty, voice already rough from all his moaning and panting, "for anything you like."

He is always ready when Aziraphale asks, always wanting anything his angel will give. It has never not been so.

Aziraphale doesn't need to be told twice. He takes Crowley's hard length all at once, jaw loose and throat open, mouth wet and welcoming. The head of Crowley's cock hits the back of his throat just before his lips wrap around the base, and he swallows around it, urging him deeper as a low moan shakes its way out of him.

Crowley chokes and curses, fucking up into that scorching heat, just as Aziraphale had intended. Nose buried in thick firebrand curls, Aziraphale works his throat and hums encouragement, until Crowley is burying both hands in Aziraphale's soft, angel-white curls. Long, delicate fingers gripping, holding his head steady as Crowley starts to _ use _him. 

He presses his tongue to the pulsing vein as it slides, rough, back and forth over his stretched lips. The way Crowley's cock head bumps against the back of his teeth with every stroke, then forces its most welcome way into his throat, draws broken whimpers from Aziraphale, in perfect time with the rocking of Crowley's hips. Drool runs freely from his mouth - more mess than he can usually abide, but it will serve him well, soon, so he bears it.

When Crowley tugs insistently at his hair, a warning Aziraphale knows all too well even without coherent words to go with it, Aziraphale presses up into Crowley's hold - too gently to be a struggle, too abrupt to be an invitation for Crowley to continue using him.

Crowley lets him go with a desperate, low keening that strikes Aziraphale somewhere deep in his chest, and radiates through every nerve ending. 

"I'll let you come soon, my love. My darling one," he soothes, stroking gentle fingers down Crowley's thoroughly tormented prick. 

Crowley is too far gone to pay much mind to the way Aziraphale's fingers linger on his dripping wet sack, swiping through the slickness slowly collecting there, other than to press his head into the cushions and make a low noise of half-hearted complaint.

His own spit running down his fingers, Aziraphale reaches around behind himself to find his twitching, needy hole. He wants so much, it takes hardly any effort to dip two fingertips inside. He bites his lip and presses his cheek to Crowley's thigh, hoping he won't guess what Aziraphale's doing, hoping he'll only think Aziraphale is pausing to calm himself. 

Neither of them move for a long moment, other than the shared heaving of their breath, and the clandestine movements of Aziraphale's fingers. It doesn't take long to ready himself at all. There's no need to do more than he must to spread a little wetness to ease the way, no need to work himself loose and open, or even properly wet. 

Not when all he wants is to chase his pleasure with Crowley's cock buried, _ burning _, inside him. He wants to feel tomorrow like Crowley is still sunk inside him, flaying him to the bone with mutual need - to feel it all week, or until Aziraphale has the opportunity to indulge Crowley's request.

The memory of it lights a fresh fire low in Aziraphale's belly, and he stops teasing at his rim to urge Crowley into a position slightly more like sitting, and climbs back into his bony lap without further ado.

"I'm going to sit on your cock now, dearest," the softness of Aziraphale's cool hand on Crowley's hellfire-hot cheek does not at all match the raging fire of his voice. 

This time, Crowley finds himself making a sound composed entirely of vowels, staring up at Aziraphale with impossibly golden, impossibly black eyes. Aziraphale seems to understand - he always has, really, whether or not he'd admit it - and smiles indulgently. "And I'll stay there until I climax, if that's quite alright with you?"

Crowley nods furiously, reaching out with one hand to hold himself steady for Aziraphale to sink onto, while the other sinks into the generous flesh of his angel's hip. _ Love handles_, he thinks wildly, _ how perfect, _as the blunt head of his cock brushes up against the tight ring of Aziraphale's ass.

Tight _ and _nearly dry, he thinks distantly, as he strokes a thumb up his length, to where it meets Aziraphale starting to bear down on him.

He starts to sit up, to open his mouth to protest, to offer to get Aziraphale ready for him _ properly, _ but Aziraphale stops him with a finger to his lips, and a hand braced on his chest.

And then Crowley's inside, just the tip at first, and it is so hard to hold himself steady, to not slam up into Aziraphale's clutching warmth. The long, low moan that drags out of Aziraphale for the entirety of his long, slow slide down the stiff length of Crowley's prick is near reward enough. To know that his angel finds it so pleasurable just to be filled, _ impaled_, like this, so slow and rough it could almost be called torture. 

Aziraphale leaves a small smear of precome on Crowley's nearly concave belly, and Crowley can't help but smirk deliriously at the knowledge. He hadn't touched Aziraphale's prostate at all, sinking into him, and yet he's already leaking his bliss onto Crowley's stomach. Completely shameless - Crowley is nearly giddy with it.

For a long moment, Crowley let his hand remain trapped between the cradle of his hips and the plump curve of Aziraphale's arse. He strokes his fingertips over the place where they join, making Aziraphale twitch and shudder against him while they wait for him to adjust to the intrusion.

"Crowley," is all Aziraphale has to say, soft and needy, before Crowley shifts both hands to grip his arse cheeks. Aziraphale rises up on his knees, following the pull of Crowley's hands, moaning aloud to feel so exposed. 

Knowing that, if only he could be seated on the other side of the room and on Crowley's cock at the same time, he'd be treated to the sight of Crowley moving in and out of him, as natural as breathing. 

The thought has him tightening around Crowley's length and bearing down, so sudden and sharp that Crowley's hips snap up into him with a lewd, wet sound.

Crowley starts to apologize in spite of Aziraphale's pleased gasp, but his angel shushes him with a quick kiss, grinding down against him until he's once again seated in the cradle of Crowley's hips. He rolls his hips, again and again, groaning as Crowley moves deep inside him. He lifts up onto his knees again, until the head of Crowley's cock is held once more in the tight clutch of Aziraphale's entrance.

Aziraphale shifts his hips again, very carefully, so that Crowley all but slips free, and then back in again. Twice more he does it, until Crowley is trembling all over with the effort of being still and letting Aziraphale pierce himself with Crowley's achingly hard prick.

Still holding himself up on his knees, Aziraphale leans down to pant into Crowley's ear, "Please dearest, won't you _ fuck me _the way I know you want to?"

Crowley does, thrusting up with his hips and pulling down with his hands, burying himself inside his beloved angel. He lifts Aziraphale with fingers biting deep into firm, fleshy arsecheeks, pulling nearly all the way out. 

They moan together, a sweet, intoxicating sound, and Crowley shifts lower on the sofa. On the next thrust, his cockhead slides against Aziraphale's prostate - Crowley knows from the way Aziraphale tightens around him and tries to silence his broken gasp in Crowley's hair.

"Like this?" Crowley asks with a wobbly smirk, shifting his hips just enough to drag relentlessly over that too-sensitive spot.

Aziraphale shudders at each stroke, trying to work himself down onto Crowley's cock, trying to take him in to the hilt, but Crowley holds him firm. There will be bruises on his arse, later, if he doesn't will them away. And why would he?

"Oh, you fiend," he complains weakly, his entire body alight with Crowley's work, but the look on his face is one of ecstatic pleasure. 

Crowley grins. "Do you want me to fill you, angel?" he asks, nuzzling beneath Aziraphale's jaw and down his neck. "So deep you'll feel it all week, if it suits you?" he sinks his teeth into the skin just above Aziraphale's collarbone, and lets go his vice-grip on Aziraphale's arse.

Aziraphale drops like a stone into Crowley’s lap, wrenching low groans from both of them. Crowley trembles, buried in rapturous heat. Aziraphale trembles too, but takes a moment to smooth Crowley's wild hair back from his face.

"All right, my dear?" he asks breathlessly, overwhelming fondness etched in every line of his adoring face. Crowley nods mutely, grinning up at Aziraphale like, well, a demon.

“Fantastic,” Crowley pants, grinning still, and starts to roll his hips, “never better.” He lets out a low whine when Aziraphale shifts his hands to his shoulders, thumbs brushing over his collarbones.

Using his grip on Crowley's shoulders to steady himself, Aziraphale starts to move. He lifts off Crowley with a low hum of pleasure, smiling down at Crowley. "You won't make me do all the work myself, now, will you?" he teases.

Crowley's answer is to lean up and kiss him, teeth worrying plush lips between them gently, and snap his hips up as Aziraphale begins to sink slowly down onto him. 

Aziraphale moans, open-mouthed, and Crowley takes his chance to lick his way in, tasting traces of himself in his angel’s mouth. They move together like that, Crowley thrusting up as Aziraphale lowers himself, drawing out as he rises. The friction of it burns, but wonderfully, like the dripping of hot wax across skin taut with anticipation. 

Crowley’s hands wander the length and breadth of Aziraphale, stroking over his curves, gripping at the perfect swell of his arse, his hips. When he reaches for Aziraphale’s cock, his angel drags free of their kiss to shake his head gently. “Not yet, if you please, my love,” he murmurs, kissing his way along Crowley’s cheekbone to nip at the snake sigil marking his skin.

They’ve been together long enough now that Crowley no longer fears that such a request is meant to punish him for some unknown and unknowing wrong. Aziraphale wants to tease him, or to draw this out as long as he can. Crowley trembles not with guilt, but with ecstasy, and the overwhelming force of his - of _ their _\- love. 

“Anything you say, angel,” he breathes, angling his hips to make Aziraphale see stars again. “I won’t ever let you come, if that’s what you want.” His timing couldn’t be better, really, thrusting against Aziraphale’s prostate twice, in time with his words.

Aziraphale keens and bucks against him, suddenly tighter than even the most merciless grip of his hand, and Crowley groans with him, hips stuttering weakly.

“Oh, angel, if you keep that up, I’ll never make it long enough to finish you without my hands,” Crowley sighs, using his hands to spread Aziraphale wide to sink even deeper into him.

"I don't care," Aziraphale says fiercely into firebrand hair, grinding against Crowley's hips before lifting himself so that even a twitch further would see them separated. 

As he'd hoped, Crowley thrusts up with hips too flexible for a human (but too rigid for a serpent), and Aziraphale clenches around another strike to his prostate.

"Oh, please yes," Aziraphale begs, very prettily, momentarily distracted from what he'd been going to say. He rocks into Crowley's thrusts twice more before he catches at his train of thought again. "You don't have to wait for me, dearest, you know how I love to feel you," he murmurs, clenching as tight as he can around Crowley without impeding the tight slide of him.

Crowley thrusts up as Aziraphale comes down, reaching to take Crowley's face in his hands and pull him up for a kiss. His hands slide up Aziraphale's back, fingers digging in where wing-joints would be if they were out as Aziraphale bites and licks his way into Crowley's welcoming mouth.

Aziraphale curves his body to draw Crowley just a little deeper, letting out little whimpers of pleasure as he rolls his hips, encouraging Crowley to fill him, _ please. _

Well, Crowley never has been able to tell his angel no, has he? So he does, moaning into Aziraphale's mouth as his lover quickens the rocking of his hips to match the pulsing of his cock. 

Crowley feels wrung out long before he's done, stripped bare and bled dry. Aziraphale rides him through it, his own cock still hard and sliding against the taut muscles of Crowley's stomach. 

Aziraphale settles deep into Crowley's lap as he comes down, sinking into the cushions, completely spent. Still Aziraphale doesn't move, holding Crowley's sated, softening cock inside him while he catches his own breath. 

Crowley opens his mouth to apologize, tries to find the strength in himself to get hard again before his angel decides to pull off and finish the job himself.

Aziraphale silences him again, with a thumb pressed to his parched lips, and then a kiss as cool and sweet as a desert oasis. "You needn't do anything but stay where you are, darling," he soothes, stroking Crowley's cheek with a gentle hand and reaching between them with the other.

"Can you do that for me?" he asks, entreating but sincere. He will stop now if Crowley cannot, or will not.

Crowley nods and presses his cheek harder into Aziraphale's palm, trembling when he feels the knuckles of Aziraphale's hand brush his belly.

Knowing Aziraphale is going to stroke himself off with Crowley's spent prick still held inside him is more than enough to make him twitch in interest.

Aziraphale laughs softly, feeling unbearably fond, even as his breath hitches at his own touch. He must be close, because with every stroke of his hand he squeezes around Crowley, an unending, exquisite torment of oversensitivity.

If this goes on much longer, Crowley thinks desperately, he'll be hard again, whether or not he means to. 

He tries to twist his head to get a look at Aziraphale's hand moving over his fat pink cock. It's one thing to feel the movement of it against his belly, to feel every stroke of it in his overstimulated prick and every drop of precome that drips and spurts onto him. Maybe, if he could see, that would be enough to send him flying again.

"Oh," Aziraphale gasps, catching him trying to look. He tips Crowley's face up again, as if for another kiss, but first, "Please don't look, my darling, my love," he pleads, still pumping his cock with abandon. How Aziraphale speaks at all in moments like these, Crowley will never know.

Then Aziraphale gentles his mouth open with the press of his thumb, licking his way inside as he clenches unbearably tight around Crowley, the tide of his own orgasm cresting. 

It's enough to wring another half-formed orgasm from Crowley, and even more of his seed.

Aziraphale moans and whimpers his way through it while Crowley struggles to cling to consciousness and reality both.

Aziraphale is still in his lap, slumped boneless and panting against his shoulder, when he comes back to himself moments (or maybe hours, who knows) later. He shifts to wrap the angel up in his arms, noting with relief that they're no longer _ connected _ by anything but sticky skin and mutual affection.

He miracles away the more unpleasant aspects of the mess, but does nothing about their bare skin, or the way Aziraphale's thoroughly used hole is leaving a damp spot on his skin.

After all, he might just want to lick Aziraphale clean, later. But for now, he summons a hideous tartan quilt that Aziraphale adores and wraps it around them.

"Do you want the bed, angel?" he asks quietly, lips pressed into the damp curls at Aziraphale's temple.

Aziraphale shakes his head slightly, making a quiet, negating sort of noise.

Crowley wiggles beneath Aziraphale, shifting very carefully, and slowly, so that he doesn't just tumble onto his back across the cushions. He draws Aziraphale down with him gently, and settles him, sprawling, over him.

"How's that, love?" Crowley asks solicitously, stroking firm hands down the length of Aziraphale's back, smoothing out the quilt.

Aziraphale answers with a tired, pleased sigh, shifting to rest his head on Crowley's chest, to listen to his extraneous, extraordinary heart. It's not often Crowley calls him anything but his name, or angel, so Aziraphale savors every occasion. 

Crowley presses his cheek to Aziraphale's featherfluff hair, feeling as full of love he's ever felt in all his existence.


End file.
